Alter Idem : The Second Self
by LithiumDoll
Summary: Two Crichtons, no convenient midseason 3 death, dark fic
1. My life closed twice before its close

Summary: Two John Crichtons, without the convenient sudden death of one in IP:IA, a 'What If', with a sting. This is not a happy-happy story. You have been warned. Goes heavily AU at Infinite Possibilities: Icarus Abides, but works its way back at Dog With Two Bones.  
  
Author Note: The chapter titles form a full poem called 'Parting' by Emily Dickinson.  
  
Disclaimer: Mine, all mine. Really. What do you mean you don't believe me? Yeah, okay, okay, busted. Theirs, all theirs.  
  
Thank you: Catluckey for the ideas and encouragement, ScaperRed for the wonderful betaing. (She make English me write gud.) and Kazbaby for all of the above.  
  
----  
  
We Hynerians have a word the translator microbes never fail to frell up; given their general inadequacy I suppose it's not surprising. They are able to apply themselves to any language, even ones not stored in the ship's database, if given a brief moment to map the synapses of meaning and connotation in their host's brain. Yet they are utterly unable to give a suitable version of this one simple word.  
  
I thought the lesser races didn't have the intelligence to understand the concept at all, after attempts to explain it to the few ambassadors I allowed on the sovereign planet failed utterly. A hundred and thirty cycles on a prison ship later, I discovered I might have been mistaken. Peacekeepers, for one, are masters of a craft they don't even have the sense to name. I discovered Luxan poetry is close but, by the yotz, it takes them five arns of unending, torturous metaphor to grasp it, and even then they dance around the simplest point.   
  
To the unwashed and unenlightened that constitutes the rest of the universe, it might seem odd that Hynerians have this word, but they forget how we live. They forget that we break each other for sport and occasionally out of sheer boredom. From the lowliest slave to the highest of my advisors - especially the highest of my advisors - we play games with each other's lives. My cousin, may his stomachs never be full, considered it a kindness to send me to the Zelbinion.  
  
The word is n'ebrok.  
  
Understand. There is mind, there is body and, as the blue bitch could never be convinced to stop talking about, there is spirit. Soul. The invisible core of life within that most of the universe seems to agree exists in one form or another. We Hynerians spend our lives gratifying all three in preparation for the pleasures of the afterlife. After all, you wouldn't want to enter eternity unpractised.  
  
A broken mind is nothing to speak of; a quick death and the properly performed rituals will send it to the afterlife in one piece.  
  
A broken body can be mended by a loved one's tending, or those who are owed money by the unfortunate afflicted will usually bring about another quick death if it can't. Again the afterlife will see them whole and fit to enjoy the pleasures available.  
  
A broken spirit will never know peace or rest. What decent afterlife would accept it? Some lesser race's, perhaps; I hear Luxans will let practically anyone in. But, on the whole and after due consideration, it's frelled. And, because the mind is still intact, it knows it. What is there to lose after that?  
  
It's hard to break a spirit until it shatters but leave the mind and body intact, and I should know. It was a pastime of mine, almost a tradition for Dominars.  
  
You can see it in the eyes, the moment of shattering, and understand that it's a satisfying thing to see in an enemy; a terrible thing to see in the eyes of an ally, even one as intrinsically flawed and unwelcome as he. Or something very, very like it at least.  
  
I can't really blame the others for not noticing it. I intended to, and at length, but I never found a moment when I needed to hurt them so badly. I should have understood faster though, and when I did I shouldn't have denied it, even in the state I was in. Not for his health, you understand, for mine. They are unpredictable once the n'ebrok is complete. Dangerous. I'd been waiting for it from the moment Talyn reported Moya was in the system and closing on the call of sand that had the nerve to call itself a planet, of which we were currently guests.  
  
He would step off the transport and see her in his arms. After a fashion.  
  
Of course, I did have half a mortar shell in my stomachs and the entire Charrid nation attempting to kill me, so clearly they were all to blame. Having no notion of n'ebrok is no excuse.  
  
I didn't see them land; I can only guess what happened, but it is an experienced guess. There would have been those long looks and swallowed words they really think the rest of us won't notice; all three of them in their own little world of angst and vomit inducing longing. I do wonder what colour the sky was there - something suitably melodramatic, no doubt.  
  
The Crichton that had been the bane of my life most recently would have tried to hold his mate close, challenging his other self without a word. Aeryn would have wavered between them, unable to be cruel and with no way to be kind. D'Argo would have patted any handy shoulder with his customary ease in those situations - which is to say someone undoubtedly came away with bruises. Chiana would have flitted foreground to background, trying to make conversation when no one was listening. Then, I imagine, the Charrids wouldn't have tolerated such moments the way we do and opened fire on the lot of them. Thank the yotz.  
  
Of course, I wasn't thinking so clearly at the time, rather more preoccupied with attempting to find out which parts of metal imbedded in my royal flesh could be safely removed, and wondering if Stark had had the foresight to keep some of the curative weeds around. Between that and the mortar shells, I didn't even notice when the turret door opened, just felt a touch on my ear.  
  
"Hey, Sparky. Whoa! Put the pointy bit of metal down. You swing like my gran'ma."  
  
"Well, you shouldn't sneak up behind me. Which one are you?"  
  
He looked down at his green shirt and tugged at it with a strange little smile I couldn't quite identify. Still can't. There are a hundred and one things I don't feel an immense need to know about the human - either human - and that was merely one of them. "Momma Crichton's original baby boy … what happened to you, Ryg'?"  
  
"I vacationed with my wives on a pleasure planet, what does it look like, you dim frelnik?"  
  
"It looks like you've taken one in the gut, little man. C'mon, let me see."  
  
"Get your hands off me you … " The rest died in a hiss as he probed. I dislike showing weakness. Complaining about the smaller things makes me feel better, if nothing else, but when I am truly in bad health, I will not show it. An excellent survival instinct, in my mind.  
  
It was then I actually looked at him. He was muttering to himself, rambling in those strange words the microbes cannot translate. His touch as he worked was admittedly as gentle as he could make it with those unwieldy paws of his. At least it was unlikely he'd end up sewing my robes into the wound. But he would not look me in the eye, hadn't yet. Unusual. Humans, like Sebaceans, appeared to favour eye contact as a means of communication, lacking a far superior ability to express themselves through a flick of the ear or a twitch of the tail.  
  
I suppose that should have been the first warning.  
  
"Well, will I live?"  
  
"I dunno, man. Did you really need that third stomach?"  
  
I was on the brink of biting him before I realised he was hiding a grin with his head ducked down and hands still industriously busy. I considered biting him anyway, but the effort seemed more trouble than he was worth. Besides, dignity is important in these situations.  
  
"If you're quite done poking at me, there's one or two Charrids I haven't killed yet."  
  
"No need. That screaming sound you can't hear anymore was a lot of bad guys heading into the sunset."  
  
"Sunset? What sunset?"  
  
"Figure of speech, Buckwheat. Moya did a flyby over their shiny little heads; turns out low flying Leviathan can offend. They tucked tail and ran, probably for a piece yet. I'm just cab service back to Furlow's place."  
  
"Then what the frell are we still doing here? Get me out!"  
  
That was when he looked up. In the middle of a desert, it was winter in his eyes. Somehow the fact he replied in the same light tone made it all the worse.  
  
"I figured I'd give them some … you know … time."  
  
I don't think I wanted to see it. I can blame the others, but I knew it was there, then. I think I just nodded, maybe even dozed. I don't faint, you understand. I doze.  
  
When I awoke, somewhat refreshed by my entirely voluntary nap, it was back at that miserable Furlow's pit. No new bruises, so at least he didn't drop me. Not the most pleasant surroundings, but infinitely better than the turret. A war council appeared to have been convened.  
  
I must have missed the best parts, the preceding bickering and accusation, as they seemed to have actually decided on some form of plan. I had to have been unconscious for several arns, at least, for that to happen. Only D'Argo's grumbling reluctance remained, so naturally it would be a plan I could support.  
  
"What the frell is going on?" My voice was barely a croaked whisper, which would never do. I put more force into my repeated attempt, and was satisfied when silence fell. It's always an accomplishment to command the attention of a room.  
  
"Go back to sleep, Rygel. Stark will check on you in a microt."  
  
"Are you farbot, woman? That mad man will see me dead!"  
  
Aeryn's doubtless inane reply was drowned out under Stark's protests. Excellent, my self-allotted portion of bickering and accusation wouldn't be wasted.  
  
"Cut it out, kids, or I'm turning this planet right around and we're going home. Crais, how're the peepers doing?"  
  
Ah, that would be our Crichton; the other one would never manage to speak to Crais with so little bite in his voice. Well, Talyn's Crichton, at any rate; Aeryn's certainly. 'Our' might be a stretch. I never wanted him. I never wanted either of them. But no one ever listens to wisdom these days.  
  
"If you mean my eyes, they are recovering. Talyn has regained rudimentary sensors; the transfusion from Moya is speeding up the process as anticipated."  
  
"Then it's good news boys, and girls. Jack, how's the bomb? Can we name it? How about Fat Man…"  
  
A shadow over me startled me enough that I lost track of the conversation momentarily. I had been worried the looming figure was Stark, but the now familiar green shirt quieted my nerves and ceased my mind's attempt to flash my life before my eyes. Briefly. He settled on my bed cross-legged without even asking permission.  
  
"What?"  
  
"What, what?"  
  
"Shouldn't you be out there planning a glorious victory? Or at least coming up with a Plan B for when it invariably goes wrong?"  
  
"Nah, it looks like I've got it all covered." There was a mocking sound to his voice, and again he was avoiding looking at me, just staring into one of the many patches of shadow around us.  
  
Now, I wonder why he sought me out. We had never been friends, not really, in either of his incarnations. I don't have friends. I have subjects.  
  
I would have thought he would rather have been alone, but he sought me out instead. Was there something I could have said, was he waiting to hear something? Or was it simply because we were not friends. It wasn't as if he'd have to compete with his other self for my attention.  
  
Then, I just found him as irritating as ever.  
  
"Well, I don't want you here, go and annoy someone else."  
  
Anger would have been comforting, a snide retort. Anything. But he just stood with a shrug and walked away.  
  
I went back to sleep. Wouldn't you? 


	2. It yet remains to see

They think we don't see; they sometimes forget this living ship surrounds them with a thousand mechanical eyes. What she does not see, she feels. I think they even forget that, like most proud mothers, she talks to her child. Moya and I were most grateful for Commander Crichton's insistence on following the signal he claimed to hear. Although it was a strange request at the time, our joy at finding Talyn and being able to aid him far outweighed the initial inconvenience.  
  
It was while the umbilical was transferring the needed fluid for his recovery that Talyn told us of Commander Crichton and Officer Sun's new arrangements. I recall he was most put out by the way they would hit his walls, unable to discern the cause of it. It took several arns for Moya to convince him his passengers were odd, rather than ineffectually attempting to hurt him.  
  
Of course, by the time Talyn informed us of new developments, Commander Crichton had already taken the transport down to the planet. Not that we would have mentioned the news, as it's never been our place to encroach on these things; though sometimes they seek me out to talk, little realising it is Moya's advice as much as my own they receive. She is fond of her crew, and since Zhaan left us, it distresses her all more to see them in pain.  
  
We were not surprised when Commander Crichton returned to us after only a few arns.  
  
Moya hummed to me as she opened her bay doors to allow him in, a wash of concern and sorrow in threads of orange and blue, wrapping around the colour I have yet to name that is ourselves joined.  
  
He came to the den soon after docking, moving in the shadows without his customary unintelligible greetings. I confess I have come to enjoy the exuberance he often displays, as unsettling as it can be. Mine is a sedentary species, only the bonding with a Leviathan giving the opportunity for great movement. In comparison the simple ability to walk seems insignificant, but there was usually the strangest bounce to his step, as if the action were more than a means from point to point, they were a celebration of moving at all.  
  
That energy was gone, and Moya once more gave a tremor through my mind. He waited until he was before my console to speak, intently looking at the controls as if he were studying them for the first time.  
  
"May I help you, Commander?"  
  
"How's Talyn doing? Crais said sensors were coming online."  
  
It was nothing he couldn't have commed from the planet, and Moya's unease grew as the blue darkened to grey. "It will be perhaps four or five arns before he is fully recovered, but he will be able to Starburst within the next two."  
  
"Good, 'cause it turns out there's a Scarran Dreadnaught on the way just itchin' to get their hands on some wormhole know-how."  
  
Moya's panic fuelled my own, my reply bellowing out before I could take a moment to calm either of us. "What? We must leave. Now."  
  
"Hey, slow to a simmer, Pilot, it's okay. Moya? It's going to be fine." He reached forward, disregarding my growl, and touched my arm, looking around the den as he spoke to her. After a moment I felt the first tensions of imminent Starburst dying away, heard through her connection to Talyn that Crais was attempting to soothe her son - whose first instinct had been to raise weapons and protect his mother against an enemy he couldn't have targeted were they even there.  
  
Commander Crichton and Captain Crais almost repeating each other's words in an attempt to calm was an event so unlikely I simply blinked as he explained, once more retreating to slowly pace in the shadows.  
  
"They got it all figured out down there, there's no danger. Moya and Talyn are going to move so you've got the planet between you guys and the Dreadnaught, then there's going to be a really big boom. Somehow. I missed the rest."  
  
"Even a massive explosion won't destroy a Scarran Dreadnaught, Commander. It can't be done."  
  
"They got a guy down there who thinks it can, and he looks like an extra from The Applegates, so he's got to know what he's talking about. Worst happens, Moya and Talyn can take off."  
  
"But … what about you and the others?"  
  
"We needed to work on our tans anyway."  
  
"We will not leave you. However, we will now move to the other side of the planet. The comms may take some time to reconfigure for the new trajectory. An arn, no more."  
  
He didn't reply, just stood silent as he finally came to a rest and leant against the inner hull. I gave him several microts before speaking, otherwise I believe he might have stayed there for arns. Perhaps, in retrospect, I should have concurred with Moya's impulse to allow him his silence.  
  
"Commander?"  
  
"Huh? Oh, sorry, Pilot. Kinda drifted there. Yeah, comms a no-no, check. Guess I'll head back."  
  
"You are welcome to stay with us, if you wish. We are pleased to have company."  
  
I thought he smiled at the hesitancy in my tone; I pictured a smile to go with his reply. But I think, now, there was probably none.  
  
"Naw, better get back down there. People to see, shoot at, always busy."  
  
But he still didn't move, pausing before going on. "He got the clone outta his head. You hear that?"  
  
"That is excellent news, Commander!" And I truly was pleased for them both. The constant presence of a hostile alien presence in the mind is a horror I would wish on no one. I think, perhaps, I am in the best position to understand what it must be like. On the occasions Moya and I disagree with complete polarity, it is an almost painful experience. To have such a thing every moment, to not even have agreed to the possibility ... a nightmare.  
  
"Yeah. It's great."  
  
"I admit I was expecting more enthusiasm; surely the process that removed your double's clone would work equally as well on you?"  
  
"Probably, but he had a little more incentive. He worked out wormholes, too. Who'da thunk it."  
  
"Commander, if I may, were you in his position, you would undoubtedly have discovered everything he has."  
  
And, were positions reversed, the other Crichton would be here in the darkness with me, talking in the same impassive tone, worrying Moya with his apathy.  
  
From his lack of a response, I deduced he too had reached this conclusion. The lethargy that had been settled over him seemed to harden into something else. His words were clipped now, avoiding the moment he might have been able to share what was on his mind. Once, I think, he would have spoken to me further, but a decision was reached within him. The last words he spoke to me were as he was walking away.  
  
"Starburst if it goes south. There ain't no Plan C."  
  
The promised arn later, when we finally calibrated the Comms once more after our change of position, we discovered very little had changed. The Scarran Dreadnaught was not within sensor range, though I had no doubt they would be appearing soon, drawn to the life signs and open internal Comms traffic on the other side of the planet.  
  
I spent a moment debating whom to contact to tell them of our arrival before Talyn took the initiative and used his now perfectly functioning link with Captain Crais. It was not long before we ourselves were hailed.  
  
"Hey, Pilot, you up there?"  
  
"Yes, Commander. It is good to hear from you again."  
  
At least through this medium we had little trouble in telling the two Crichtons apart; their Comms signatures were quite disparate.   
  
"Man, you got no idea. How's Moya, she okay?"  
  
"She is quite well, the umbilical will be severed within the arn. She wishes you to know it will be pleasant to have yourself, Dominar Rygel and Stark once more on board. She has missed you."  
  
It only occurred to me later that the Crichton we had been travelling with might have heard her greeting, and it was long after that I considered what an effect on him it could have had. She meant nothing by it, of course. Moya considered them individuals, as the rest of us could only strive to do and as neither of them managed. I have never shared with her my concerns over the way her message may have been misunderstood; her grief and guilt would be unbearable to us both. The tears of a Leviathan are shed through their Pilot, and I have wept enough.  
  
"That's great! Listen, we're just wrapping up down here. Pretty much everyone but Crais is heading up to Moya. Me, Myself and Aeryn are just arguing over who's gonna fly my module to the Scarrens."  
  
"Is your module going to detonate, Commander?"  
  
"What? Hell no. We're just gonna open a little worm hole, and see if that can't convince them to go someplace else in teeny tiny pieces."  
  
"A … worm … hole."  
  
"Uh … we didn't get to that part? It's gonna be right on the other side of the planet to you and Moya, no danger at all."  
  
"I see."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, don't be like that, man. We finally got a plan that works here!"  
  
"Yes, Commander. We shall attempt to enthuse about large amounts of dangerously distorted space capable of destroying us at a touch appearing in our near vicinity."  
  
There was muffled conversation in the background; I listened to that rather than his attempts to convince me a wormhole was a good idea. I was confident they would never place Moya in a position of harm if there were any other choice. However, I had no intention of allowing them to think it was something they could decide to do on a regular basis. Such habits appear to be hard for the crew to break, and I had no wish to permit it to develop further. Moya's gently thrumming dark-hued red agreed, strongly enough to almost hide the electric shock of terrified blue beneath.  
  
Behind the cajoling were strange words being used with some force. Paper. Rock. Aeryn yelled Scissor in triumph. I took this to mean she would be the one flying the module and returned my concentration to Crichton.  
  
"Commander, I agree it is a necessity. I do not feel any compulsion to be happy about it."  
  
"So, we're good?"  
  
"Yes, we are … good."  
  
"Good. Catch ya on the flip side, Pilot. Aeryn, honey, as cute as you look when you win - you still have to beat me."  
  
The automatic systems monitoring the transmission cut my ability to hear her reply, having correctly deduced our conversation had ended, but she was the first off the transport. Her steps thrummed through Moya, carrying her anger to me in pulsing waves of faint red. The others drifted apart as they disembarked, though their progress gradually led them towards my chamber at varying speeds. Only Crichton and the alien they called Jack kept apart, their destination one of the empty storage rooms on tier seven.  
  
Aeryn reached my den first, her smile for a moment removing the creases on her face I had come to learn indicated worry; the warmth in her voice removing the harshness it could sometimes hold in times of stress. She didn't smile when she left to find the ex-Peacekeepers and it is remarkable how much we missed it.  
  
"Hello, Pilot, Moya."  
  
"Officer Sun ... Aeryn."  
  
She sat on the console and leant gently against my side, I could smell the sand and heat radiating from her and adjusted the temperature to a cooler setting. There were no words for a time and, just for that little while, it seemed she had truly come home. I allowed myself to believe it, though I had little doubt she and her Crichton would return to Talyn once we were safe.  
  
"Do you believe Commander Crichton will be able to destroy the Dreadnaught, Officer Sun?"  
  
"Yes, Pilot. I believe he will, one way or the other." The worry returned and she withdrew from my side, standing before me instead.  
  
"I am quite sure that, if he is capable of such a thing, he is capable of returning… Aeryn."  
  
The smile came once more and she lightly stroked my head, knowing precisely where it was most sensitive to her touch.  
  
"I suspect you're right."  
  
"Right about what?"  
  
D'Argo strode towards us, but without the aggression I had become accustomed to. He drew up to stand beside Aeryn and his glance questioned us both.  
  
"We were commenting on Crichton's capacity for survival, Ka D'Argo."  
  
His expression darkened at the mention of the human's name, but there was no time to ask questions of our own before proximity sensors began to pick up a strong signal of a large vessel moving at speed towards the planet.  
  
"Looks like they took the bait, boys and girls. Crais, everybody hidden away over there?"  
  
There was a sudden influx of Comms traffic to sort through in response to, what I felt to be, Crichton's far too calm question. By the time I had managed to overcome Moya's fears and ensure all communication went to the right recipient, D'Argo and Aeryn had both begun running towards Command. I don't know what they thought they could do. Perhaps it was simple habit.  
  
The Dreadnaught was annihilated; they didn't even have the chance to fire. I believe it may have been the first time a plan went as intended, rather than spiralling dangerously out of control.  
  
My expectations that Talyn's passengers would return to him immediately did not come to pass. It seemed that Talyn had no intention of leaving his mother, and Moya's refusal to request he did so ended the entreaties. I had no doubt ways would part, eventually, but for better, and for worse, the crews were combined once more.  
  
I had thought Crichton, Moya's Crichton, might come to visit me again. Although his double did - with the familiar bounce in his step and wildness in his smile - he did not. I think, perhaps, the shadows of my den were not dark enough to hide in. 


	3. If immortality unveil

I hear the dead; I listen to them all. Their secrets are all for me, pieces of their soul clutching at mine with their final gasp. If they say I am mad, it is only because I have their insanity burrowing inside.   
  
Stykera have no mentors, teachers, guides or little books of careful wisdom. We have our own ways, but we are the same. We are moulded in the image of entropy as we try to hold back a piece of the sea with the thinnest, smallest, net. So few die when they are ready, even fewer understand they should move on. We tend them, we must. Who else will care for them but us?  
  
I heard him die, and I said nothing. Whispers, whispers, here and there and there and here and I said nothing. It's hard to speak when the dead are still walking. They spoke to him, but they didn't listen. Didn't see his eyes. Didn't see his eyes when Pilot said Moya had missed John Crichton. Didn't see them when Aeryn walked away. They should have seen.  
  
Zhaan, my beautiful Zhaan, would have known what to say. She follows me, I feel her. I feel her blood as my heart beats; feel her breathe as my lungs inhale. Beautiful Zhaan, torturing me with my own life.   
  
Needed her. Needed her words and her heartbeat and her breath. I knew if she could tell me what to say, I would say it. That was why I made them go to Valldon. I begged, I pleaded and I threatened. D'Argo wanted to space me, but I clung to him until they promised we would go. If they say I am mad, it is only because that is what they make me.  
  
Even on the planet of the dead, surrounded by every soul but mine, I heard the Ancient die. I hadn't seen him, didn't like him. I listen but he watched, don't like watchers watching, don't like to be watched. Mustn't be watched.   
  
They said Scorpy killed him, reached out and touched him through Crichton. Squeezed his insides, burst them as he tried to kill the clone. I said the dead bring out the dead, but they didn't understand. Couldn't understand. Didn't hear the Ancient screaming to oblivion, didn't hear Scorpy laughing, didn't feel two pairs of hands around his tiny, tiny heart.  
  
Only the Princess was there, on Moya. She found them on the floor, she said. Only one was breathing, only one. He told her he was sorry the Ancient had died. I know he did. Sorry killing the clone hadn't worked. Sorry there had been no one else with them. Sorry Moya's internal sensors failed. Sorry the door jammed. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry.   
  
Sorry he had no reason not to listen to the voices in his head, sorry he had no one to fight for anymore. Sorry a soul cannot feed two bodies. Sorry a soul cannot feed two minds.  
  
I know he looked down and away, spoke quietly and told her not to Comm us. We were probably doing something important; he could just bury the remains in the void. I know. I wasn't there, but I know. So I wouldn't see the body, so I wouldn't ask questions, so no one would look in his eyes.  
  
He needn't have worried. We were busy. We were always too busy. Busy running from Xhalax, busy chasing Crais, busy, busy, always busy.   
  
I remember in pieces, nothing of the whole. Fragments and moments without reason, but I don't remember it all. Maybe I wasn't there. Maybe I shouldn't have been there.   
  
Maybe it was just that place. The building Crichton called the Hotel California, though he never explained. Mystic beggars with half their soul already in the ground, stealing little pieces of the dead for a coin.   
  
I do remember the sound of D'Argos voice, so loud in one ear and so quiet in the next, and just when I had almost heard her speak.  
  
"Stark!"  
  
"D'Argo!"  
  
"Why are you shouting?"  
  
"You shouted at me. You made her go away. She never liked you. Brutish D'Argo."  
  
He took a deep breath as I stared at him, trying to control my fury, the lie coming automatically to hurt as much as I hurt. I lash out and, after a moment, I'm sorry. Still not used to people who listen to what I say, care what I say.   
  
"I called you."  
  
"And I called you back. Zhaan liked you. Sensitive D'Argo."  
  
"Thank you, Stark."  
  
I see flashes of that gentleness, sometimes. Before he hides it. Hides it now, closing his eyes and deepening his voice, being strong because he's the only one left to be.  
  
"Xhalax is still somewhere here and we can't find her. We can't find Crais either. The transport will be leaving within the arn."  
  
"Leaving Crais?"   
  
"He has betrayed us once too often. Come on."  
  
I stood my ground and shook my head, watching the irritation build in him again. It's all control. I make him lose it, I gain it. He keeps it, I never have it. Control.   
  
"What? You don't like Crais either."  
  
"No. No, don't like Craisy. But Talyn, Talyn likes Crais. Talyn likes Moya. Moya is our home."  
  
"Talyn will get over it. He has Aeryn."  
  
"He doesn't. But he has a man he can kill for Aeryn, if his toy is taken away."  
  
"You're babbling, Banik."  
  
"Find Crais. Find Crais. Crais. Find Crais. Find him, find him, find him. No more death!"  
  
I started with pleading softly and somehow finished with shouting, fingers curling in the thick red material of D'Argos robe, digging at his arms, dragging him down until my gaze was level with his. He might have killed me, I think, but he was too surprised; a reaction that has saved this life, as it is, on more than one occasion. Didn't work on the Plokavians, though.  
  
If they say I am mad, perhaps it is only because I am.  
  
Aeryn found us like that - his hands trying to pry mine away, mine too scared to let go.   
  
"What the frell do you two think you're doing? Was the concept of a low profile a bit much to understand?"  
  
She's softer than she was, I think sometimes more than she wants. She's angry but cannot hide the affection or amusement in her tone, not when happiness outweighs the sorrow. She tries. To strangers she is still the Peacekeeper, but not to us. Not to them. She's nothing, everything, oblivion to him.   
  
I froze then, just watching her. She's very pretty. I told her that once, and she understood. I must have lost concentration, fingers clenched around my throat, D'Argo holding me before him with my feet kicking uselessly above the ground.   
  
"This frellnik was causing the scene. We're leaving."  
  
"His face isn't meant to be that colour, D'Argo. Put him down. What's he trying to say?"  
  
My feet found purchase and for that I was grateful. He didn't let me talk though, hand tightening further on my throat as a warning. Brutish D'Argo. Maybe if he held a little tighter, I would hear her voice. Sensitive D'Argo.  
  
"Nothing important, let's go."  
  
"D'Argo."  
  
One word to convince him. Not an order, never an order. I wish I could command with a word. But what word would I choose?  
  
"He wants us to find Crais. He thinks Talyn would cause trouble if we tried to leave without him." The rumble of irritation in his tone doesn't worry her; she only looks serious as she thinks.  
  
"Well, he could be right. John's been having second thoughts about leaving him behind too."  
  
"We should have left sooner. He always changes his mind when he's given time."  
  
They share a faint smile. Their course is set now, differences eased behind a common joke. I would share it with them, but I'm too busy gasping for breath as the vice is finally released.  
  
"No more death?"  
  
"No more death. Crazy Banik. Come on."   
  
This time his grip is to the back of my collar as he steers me after Aeryn, manhandling this shell as he would a child. I wonder if he knows a body doesn't have to be dying for me to take their soul to the other side. I like to think he does, sometimes, that he is truly that brave.  
  
I remember we found Crais, and Xhalax Sun. I remember that. I remember the tears on her cheeks as she couldn't pull the trigger. Aeryn reaching forward as Crichton held her back, trying to shield her from a scene her mind would only make a substitute for if her eyes weren't able to see. The pain in the twist of Crais' mouth as his shot sent Xhalax over the balcony, falling until she was just one more body on the ground.  
  
I remember the brush of a soul too long hurt, too long angry, too long hating. Too long dead. She didn't cry for herself, or her daughter. The tears were rage for the weakness of today and tomorrow. But I didn't tell Aeryn that. Would never tell Aeryn that. Little lies are all we know of peace and peace is all we know of forgetting.  
  
Crais had words to explain, and no one believed him. I don't know if he believed him. He said he had tried to hunt Xhalax to repair the damage of not killing her, and no one believed him. He said she had tried to gain control of Talyn through his link, and only his will had prevented it, and we only half believed him. He said she had radioed for reinforcements, and we believed that.  
  
They each came to me, in the Hotel that no one can leave, to convince me to come with them. Crichton tried longest, but then he always did, just in case it worked.   
  
"C'mon man, we can't leave you here, they'll find you. If Zhaan's here, she's everywhere. You know that. She'll never find you in a place like this, anyway - too many crazy people to sort through. Come with us and she can't miss ya."   
  
Then D'Argo came, blade in hand and glowering.   
  
"Banik, you will get on that transport now, or I will personally carry you there."   
  
"No."  
  
He left with Crichton, and I had discovered a word that could command.  
  
Rygel hovered in the doorway, saying words that had no bearing on ears dropped low and eyebrows pulled down. Hynerian misery.  
  
"Stark, stay and see if I give a yotz. Good riddance to you."  
  
A gloved grey hand pushed him out the way and Chiana ignored his cursing as she picked her way delicately towards me. She's pretty too, all tricks and all treats and bright lights and shadow. They watch the right hand, but I watch the left.   
  
"Don't leave now, not when we need you."  
  
"You don't need me, Chiana. You don't need anyone, remember."  
  
"True. Moya needs you."  
  
"Moya has the others. Goodbye, Nebari."  
  
She leaned in close and I moved away, but the wall trapped me from behind as her smile trapped me from the front. Her hands never touched me, though they wavered close. Just a chaste little kiss to the forehead of my mask, and then she was gone.   
  
I was alone then, and it was silent at last. But only for a moment, as a shadow fell over the room once more.  
  
"Stark, please don't go."  
  
And there she was. Her eyes were red, but clear. No tremor, no weakness. Her mother had mourned tomorrow, but her child could be its brightest hour.  
  
"I'm not, you are."  
  
She smiled at that, she is prettiest when she smiles. "You know what I mean. Don't leave us. Zhaan wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. Or us."  
  
"Goodbye, Aeryn Sun." I touched her hair, once, just to remember what it was to touch. She nodded and touched my cheek. There were no more words, and at last they were gone.  
  
Kind words, comforting words, little lies are all we know of peace.  
  
The transport was long gone, and the Peacekeepers clearing the hotel, and it was too late for anything. I heard her, then, in the warmth of my thoughts and the forgiveness in my heart. In my acceptance I heard her grief, her care, and her warning. And I knew fear. And I knew I would never catch them in time.  
  
If they say I am mad, it is only because I have already seen their last breath. 


	4. A third event to me

Zhaan used to try to teach me a lot of things but I never really listened, you know? I figured she'd always be there so I could always ask later. Me and Nerri, we learned early not to get attached to people. I leave, they leave. They die, sometimes because I've killed them. Then Nerri was gone, and I was on my own. Get close, but don't get involved. It worked for a really long time.  
  
She was like some kind of rock. A blue rock. That pollinated. Maybe she was more like a tree. A really old tree with roots so deep it was like a mountain. Yeah, a mountain. That would stand after everything else was dust. Or a rock. A blue rock.   
  
Even at the end, when we were all a microt from being atomised, I never believed she would die. It was Zhaan, and Zhaan was this constant thing. I told her that, and she smiled. There was a wrap on her head to hide the sores, and she was so weak she could barely lift her hand to take mine. She said life was the only thing that was finite, and infinite; that I had enough life for both of us and, when the Goddess called her home, I would have to have enough life for everyone.   
  
I didn't really understand what she meant. I thought there'd be time to ask when we were safe again. Safer, anyway. I know better now. I ask, right then. I say what I have to say, right then. I kiss anyone I have to kiss, and I kick anyone I have to kick, and I cry when I have to cry. Right then. Because there aren't any rocks, or trees, that last forever and I can never have enough life for everyone.  
  
I tried. For him, I tried.  
  
After Valldon, before the transport pod limped on board, there was one of the good days. I got bored after half of it, I admit it. D'Argo was barely talking to me, he was spending time with Jool and his new flying toy. And the happy couple were always locked away in their quarters having sweaty fun. Sweaty noisy fun. Crais was on Talyn. Pilot only wanted to talk about the chances of the Peacekeepers catching up with us. And Rygel, well, Rygel was barely leaving his room. Maybe he knew something we didn't.   
  
So, I went looking for the odd clone out.  
  
We didn't call him that, not at first. He said it himself, right after we got back from Valldon, and then it just stuck. He just said he'd worked out he had to be the double. He was grinning, and quiet, and we were looking after Aeryn and trying to outrun a Marauder. Only Rygel said anything, and no one took any notice of that either. He muttered something about not being a duplicate anymore, just a double. Yeah, that frelling Hynerian knew something we didn't.  
  
Aeryn and her John had taken over his old quarters. He'd moved onto another tier. Most of the rooms are close to each other, an entire ship and we still like to be near, I guess. He wasn't in his new room, I wondered if I even had the right place. There was a bed, a trunk, and that was it. Nothing that showed it was being used apart from the hanging covering the grate on the cell door.   
  
Pilot said Crichton been spending all his time in the hangar with the module and he, Pilot that is, hadn't liked to disturb him. Maybe he meant he just hadn't wanted to have to talk to him. Did Pilot know something? I bet he did. Maybe we all knew something.  
  
There he was, belly down on the nose of the "birdie", hands busy with something in the cockpit. I climbed up to look inside; taking an interest is the quickest way to get interest taken.  
  
"Hey, li'l girl. Don't touch the buttons."  
  
I pulled my hand back from the flashing array, wondering how he knew. It wasn't like he'd bothered to look at me yet.  
  
"Whatcha doin', old man?"  
  
"I …" He looked up and then, briefly, I saw the smile and never thought to look closer, see the edge that must have been in it. "…am upgrading my baby."  
  
"Gonna be taking a trip? You and me, wadda ya say? I'm going crazy here."  
  
"Wouldn't like where I'm going, Pip."  
  
"Will Jool be there?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
"See, I love it already. I'm packed. Let's go."  
  
"Not this time."  
  
He wasn't even listening to me anymore. Sure, he was answering, but name me a man who can't make all the right noises even when his mind's a hundred metras away. Usually I have a trick to bring them right back again, but my hand was still on its path to his eema when Pilot ship-wided a Comm.  
  
They were just us in different clothes, really. Maybe if we'd worked together, not so many would have died. Then again, maybe more would have died. But we all chose one to latch onto, defend, and looked at the others to see who was going to betray who first.   
  
When the Scarran was killed, only D'Argo was angry. The rest of us were too busy being watchful. No one's going to miss a Scarran. Then, Hubero. I think I could have loved him. Her. Or it could have just been the attraction, the temptation, of conformist taboo. Then, I was angry and the others were too busy pointing fingers.  
  
We got too used to his royal pain in the eema. For a Hynerian, let alone for a Dominar, Rygel plays straight; and that's including all the times he's nearly got us caught, captured or killed for his own profit. He has a different rule to live by, that's all, but he doesn't deviate from it. Crichton, back when there was only one, called it Unenlightened Self-interest. It's still a way of life.  
  
No one thought to look twice at a vapid green tralk of a slug.  
  
Sometimes I think of Hubero, and I wish I didn't because it's too much, you know? I don't want to remember Hubero, because then I remember Crichton. I figure, if I can just forget Hubero, then that'll do it. That'll be enough. If I could just forget the name on Hubero's lips when she died, that'd do it.  
  
See, the others, they were happy to put the blame on a dead Hynerian but, me, me I couldn't let it go. I couldn't forget. He smiled when I asked him where he was when the Scarran was killed. It was a strange little smile. It was my smile. I couldn't ask him where he was when Hubero was killed.   
  
Zhaan's watching, and I wonder if she's laughing at me. The Nebari tralk with a mouth big enough to eat a bulkhead, too scared to ask a question. I wonder, if I had asked before it was too late, whether he would have told me. Or whether he would have just smiled again.  
  
At the time I told myself he could have done it, sure, but why would he? And then, later, when it was just the slug and me in a cold little bar on a dead end world watching ourselves on a Wanted Beacon, I knew.   
  
I remembered how he'd grinned at the announcement from his look-a-like that we were going to go make a little visit to Scorpius. I was happy at the time - not that we were going to bring the fight to the Peacekeepers, that was suicide and that's never been a big hobby of mine. You know what they say, final solution for a temporary problem. I figure anything short of a star going nova qualifies as temporary.  
  
But I was happy that he had come back from wherever his mind had been. He was excited, he even helped plan how we were going to get in there. Even more importantly, he had a few ideas on how we could get out.  
  
I should have remembered that Crichton's Plan A never works, not for either of them. There's always a Plan B, always one more angle. That's why I love, loved, him. Them. This was his. Plan A had exploded with a faulty cell drive, taking the Peacekeeper tech right with it. Welcome to Plan B.  
  
We were in the command centre for arns, arguing round in circles. Only Rygel was really enjoying himself. Mostly because Crais was going this really interesting colour as he tried to sound reasonable in the face of insanity. You would think he'd have known us better.  
  
"Crichton."  
  
Only one looked up, the man with his shoulder brushing Aeryn's, the one who could tolerate Crais for more than a microt at a time.  
  
"Yeah, man."  
  
"I wish it noted that the flaws in your strategy far outweigh the merits." The words were bitten out as if they tasted sour.  
  
"You've already said that. You said that about the last four plans and you still haven't come up with a better one."  
  
They stared unblinking at each other, hands braced on the table, leaning forward and deadlocked. It could have lasted forever, and I hated to be the one to break up a manly testosterone moment, but I couldn't stay quiet anymore.   
  
I fixed on Crichton, hoping he'd be spooked out if I spoke with enough confidence, hoping he'd take notice I was siding against him for once. That should have meant something. I guess a lot of things should have meant something. Doesn't mean they ever did.  
  
"We're all going to die."  
  
There was a slow blink and he looked to me with the same hard, determined gaze he'd turned on Crais. I hated it, like I learned to hate the vacant smile on his double. He came back from Talyn changed. There was always a drive but now there was some kind of ice-cold anger, and I could never have mistaken him for the John I'd spent more time with, even if they weren't wearing different colours now. "You see that one, Pip, or you just guessin'?"  
  
I wish I were a better liar. Oh, I lie well enough, but it's harder when I get this sneaking feeling I'm defending the wrong ground. Scorpius couldn't be allowed to control wormholes, even I could see that. It didn't mean I had to be as enthusiastic as they were that it was us stopping him. Again.  
  
If life is finite, and infinite, you woulda thought there'd be at least one more person out there who could do the job.   
  
"Go easy, man, she's just scared."  
  
"I am not scared."  
  
It was easy to round on the other Crichton and let the anger out, feel a rush as he took a step back where the stranger with his face would have just taken a step forward until I was backed up with nowhere to go - literally and figuratively.  
  
"Okay, you're not scared. You're … uh …"  
  
"Fine, I'm scared! I don't want anyone to die."  
  
I followed him as he crossed his arms and leaned against the inner hull, swinging my hips just enough to draw a snort from Rygel and a groan from D'Argo, something between pain and lust, a bittersweet kind of tribute.  
  
My voice dropped easily into coaxing, it's what I do well. "You were gonna go, remember? They don't need you. They don't need me. We can go, you and me. Take the module, find a pleasure planet …"  
  
When his eyes widened and he looked to Aeryn, always Aeryn, I knew he hadn't told anyone else. There was a silence, an intake of breath, and he looked back to me. Aeryn had looked to her John; she'd never glanced his way at all.  
  
"Yeah, well, business got in the way. I'll take you camping next time, Bobby-Joe."  
  
I learned quickly to ignore every other word Crichton says. Chances are I either won't understand it, or I won't want to hear it. But it was the other one who spoke up, before I could continue my own brand of reason.  
  
"You were gonna leave? In my module?"  
  
"You got the girl, brother, I get the pickup truck. You can keep the dog though, Sparky gets sick in wormholes."  
  
I turned and, this time, Aeryn was looking. Trying for wounded, getting angry. It's not a good look on her; maybe that's why she wears it so often. Wouldn't do to get too close to anyone not willing to put in at least, at least three years' worth of blood just trying to get near, would it, girl?   
  
"Aeryn and I are taking the module. We're going to Earth, when this is done and buried."  
  
"And what was I going to do?" He started humming a tune. Zhaan said he had a pleasing voice, he'd sung to her once though she didn't really understand the words. She was right, the sound was nice, and the tune was slow and happy. It didn't grate like Luxan singing, and it wasn't accompanied with pulse-fire like most Peacekeeper "entertainment."  
  
The crack of the one person who caught the reference, his other self, slamming his hand down to the table made me jump, and I didn't even realise how nervous the little refrain had made me.  
  
"We can talk about this after we make sure Scorpius isn't there to meet us with a margarita and pizza. Drop it."  
  
The hand was angry, the voice was … scared, maybe? Shocked. I wish I knew what that little piece of music had done to shake him up so badly, but I never got the chance to ask. Again. Why do I never get the chance to ask? He only shrugged and smiled.  
  
"Yeah, whatever. All the time in the world, right? It's all about time."  
  
"You worked it out?"  
  
"Close enough."  
  
I waited until after everyone had broken up - to plan more, or brood, or do whatever it is Hynerians do in their chambers alone for arns. Until it was just us, me and my John. Then I slipped under his arm and wrapped my hand around his waist. He likes touch almost as much as I do, even if he had been trying to hide how much for a long time.   
  
"Old man?"  
  
"Mmm?"  
  
"What did you sing?"  
  
He tensed, just a little, the muscles coiled under my touch for just a moment. Warmer than a Sebacean's, softer than a Luxan's, denser than a Nebari's. I could have know it was him even without my sight. Which is funny, when you think about it. Now.  
  
"Nothin', it's an earth thing."  
  
"Every song's got a name, tell me the name? I want to try it on him."  
  
There was more movement, this time in laughter. Sebaceans, Luxans, Nebari, we all walk on two legs, have two arms, the same general body type. But up close, where you can feel them, the insides move very differently. There's a fascination to it I never get tired of. The first time off Nebari, I saw how much they'd tried to keep us locked away, how much they'd never let us see. I had to know, and taste, and touch, and see everything. And, I did.  
  
"Bicycle Built For Two."  
  
"Bi-s-kell?"  
  
"Close enough." 


	5. So huge, so hopeless to conceive

Let them ask themselves what they could have done. I refuse to take part in a pointless exercise that has never given me either satisfaction or comfort, however much my mind returns to it. Again. And again. And if that frelling ooman's name is mentioned to me one more time, I will … I will do what I always do. I will listen to Jool as she tries to justify it all over the dusty artefacts of a dead people. At least it's fitting.  
  
She uncovers the old ground in her mind in the same fashion as her hands and tools uncover the dirt before her. Meticulously studying it from every angle. Turning her pain into a science. Every time she digs a little deeper, she complains the puzzle is missing too many parts. I know she isn't talking about the collection of finds by her side. Her questions chip away at what I will not look back on. I tell her I forget, or that nothing worthy of recounting happened. And we both know I'm lying, so she's as patient with me as she is with her excavation.  
  
Erosion is harder to fight than sheer force; it grinds and wears until it makes you the shape it needs you to be. It is need, and that alone is all that has kept me from walking away or giving into the rage that has settled comfortably at the edges of my thoughts, searing some into numbness and cauterizing the rest.  
  
When her hands still and she looks up at last, dust tracked over her face and caught unheeded in dull bronze hair, I know her final assault is about to begin. I am ready to defend myself from logic, from appeal, but the tears that begin to fall announce my surrender as surely as they do the breaking of her heart. But I still cannot help the anger that rises.  
  
"Tell me, D'Argo. Please, tell me what we could have done."  
  
"There is nothing you could have done." She recoils from the hiss in my voice and I breathe to calm what's automatically risen to lash out. "Nothing."  
  
Her eyes meet mine, head tilted back and lips pressed tight to deny tears that turn to anger in a breath.  
  
"Then what could you have done? You were with him, you had to have seen something."  
  
"I saw nothing." Every instinct to stand and push her away is in my expression. Her hands come up to ward me off. Shame replaces the irritation and all I can do is shake my head and give her my memory of the planet where he betrayed us.  
  
"I do not understand why you refuse to talk to them. Why did you give up your quarters? You are not being reasonable, Crichton."  
  
"Reasonable? As opposed to … what? They didn't write a self-help book on this. Look, I can't be John Crichton anymore, right? I'm gonna have to be someone else or I'm gonna go crazy watching him live my life. Which means I need to get a new one."  
  
"You are John Crichton, the fact there are two of you does not change that."  
  
"Who is John Crichton? Huh? What comes to mind. Let's see. Wormholes. Check, he's got them down. Aeryn. He's got her every which way. There isn't anything else. That's why I'm the clone, man. He got it all."  
  
"This is unhealthy."  
  
"Yeah, well, maybe it is. The day you get a double that isn't eaten by rejects from the Night of the Living Dead, you get to say how it's done."  
  
"Chiana thinks you've lost perspective over the situation."  
  
"She said that?"  
  
"No, she said "He's frelling farbot". She was about to start a fight with Aeryn and the other John for ignoring you, but Aeryn managed to tell her you'd requested they leave you alone before the shouting got too loud."  
  
"It's not "The other John". It's just John. John Crichton. I need another name, this is getting ridiculous. And I hate wearing green all the damn time."  
  
"Your father's name is Jack, is it not?"  
  
"Yeah, but I won't take that."  
  
"Why? Would your father not be honoured for you to take his name?"  
  
"There's only one Jack Crichton, the man who walked on the moon."  
  
"You have walked on several moons. As well as asteroids, a dead Budong and many planets."  
  
"It's not the same thing. I'll take Robert. Bobby. Bob. Robby. Rob."  
  
"Ro-b-ret-bo-bi-bo-br-ob-ir-ob might be inconvenient to have to shout in an urgent situation. When telling you to duck, for instance. Shorten it."  
  
"Robert, the rest sound like something outta the Brady Bunch."  
  
"And that's bad?"  
  
"That's really bad."  
  
"It is a good name. Where did it come from?"  
  
"It's my middle name. Some grandpa or other."  
  
"Ro-b-ret."  
  
"Robert. Rob-ert. Say it with me."  
  
"Rooo-beeer-et."  
  
"Rob. Try "Rob"."  
  
"Rob. Did you not say that was from Br-adeeb-bun-s?"  
  
"Yeah, but even they're not as bad as you massacring my new name. What did it do to you?"  
  
"The translator microbes are telling me your chosen name means to steal, that cannot be correct."  
  
"No, they're right."  
  
"And Rob is still a name one of your people would take with pride?"  
  
"Yep."  
  
"Your people have strange naming customs."  
  
"Tell that to Moonbase Zappa."  
  
"We Luxans give our children names we hope the future will abide by."  
  
"What does Jothee mean?"  
  
"Hope."  
  
"Huh."  
  
"Yes. D'Argo means peace."  
  
"So, you're basically saying it doesn't work?"  
  
"Yes. What does your name mean?"  
  
"Bright fame."  
  
"I suppose that would be apt."  
  
"It's true, everyone wants a piece of me. Him. No groupies though, go figure."  
  
"And what does John mean?"  
  
"God is gracious."  
  
"I have heard of few gracious Gods."  
  
"You and me both, brother."  
  
"Perhaps your fortunes will improve with the new name."  
  
"Maybe. Knowing my luck it'll just lead to a mess of new of wanted beacons."  
  
"Do you really intend to leave once we've destroy Scorpius' research?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
"You know both John and Aeryn intend the same."  
  
"Yep."  
  
"I do not think your planet is big enough for two John Crichtons."  
  
"Just as well there's only one then, huh?"  
  
"You know exactly what I mean."  
  
"So the clone is meant to be the big man and stay behind?"  
  
"We will miss you."  
  
"D'Argo, you nearly killed me. Twice. And that was just this monen."  
  
"You said you'd forgiven that."  
  
"Nothing to forgive, D-man. I'm trying to make a point here. I've lost Aeryn, I can still go home."  
  
"And what if home isn't home anymore?"  
  
"Don't want to hear it."  
  
"So you already know it won't be."  
  
"I can lose my bunk, I can lose my name and I can lose my heart. I can lose every damn thing on the Letterman List but my favourite little spinning ball of blue. Hope, remember? You see your son, I go home."  
  
"I remember. I remember that I found my son and then lost him and Chiana. If you are truly not John Crichton, then that is not your home any longer."  
  
"And Moya is?"  
  
"No. But we will want to meet Rob Crichton and help him make it his home. Will your people?"  
  
"Probably not. But there's a lot of places to get lost in."  
  
"If you're going to hide, what's the point of going?"  
  
"Did anyone ever tell you you suck?"  
  
"Chiana."  
  
"I did not need to know that."  
  
"Why did you come with us?"  
  
"When?"  
  
"Now."  
  
"Leave you and Red Riding Slug on your lonesome meeting the big bad wolf?"  
  
"Is it the neural chip again?"  
  
"You pick the weirdest times to ask potentially life or death questions."  
  
"Is it?"  
  
"No. Me and Harvey have reached an agreement. I picture Pamela Anderson four arns a day, and he leaves me alone."  
  
"Why, then?"  
  
"Insurance. If Scorpy's going to try anything, he'll do it while he thinks he has John Crichton, won't he?"  
  
"He will have John Crichton."  
  
"No, he won't. I haven't got everything figured out yet."  
  
"You have enough, you said you were close."  
  
"I am, but I'm not close enough for what he's planning."  
  
"You know what he's planning?"  
  
"Well, we're not talking rocket science. Okay, we are talking rocket science, but not to figure out what he wants."  
  
"The Universe."  
  
"Starting with the Scarrans."  
  
"I find it hard to argue that life would not be better without the Scarrans in it."  
  
"You liked that one Scarran guy."  
  
"They have arrived."  
  
"Showtime."  
  
Jool stares at me, not believing that I could remember that well. I wish I didn't. But I remember the feel of the table under my fingers as we talked, the smell of the food Rygel chose to keep his mouth perpetually filled with. I was pleased the Hynerian remained silent, but he was probably only trying to avoid Crichton's attention.  
  
The waitress was an irritation; the calmness of Crichton and Rygel was an exasperation. Neither moved to acknowledge the arrival of Scorpius and his uniformed lackey. He was serenity itself as he took a seat the table.   
  
"The Luxan and the Dominar I expected, but not you, Crichton. A breach of our agreement so early in negotiations may have serious repercussions on reaching an agreement." A smile stretched his mouth too tightly over pointed teeth, a mockery of a kindly rebuke. "I presume you are all unarmed, nonetheless?"  
  
"Unarmed. Disarmed. Disarming … Scorp, be happy, have a meal, and we'll talk about wormholes and the hundred and one reasons why I am so ready to make a deal I'll throw in a free set of steak knives."  
  
"I see." The half-breed raised his hand and that was all the warning we had before Peacekeepers rushed in from all sides. I was glad Crichton had joined us; the slug sat and did nothing as we rose to repel the attack. It was brief, though we gave a good accounting. I saw him pinned to the ground just a moment before I was held.  
  
Rygel continued eating as we cursed his name, only looking up to request they shot him in the head after he had finished his meal.   
  
Negotiations had just begun early. I had expected Crichton's anger to match mine, but he laughed as he stood.  
  
"You did this just to make sure we were playing by the rules? You need to work on those trust issues, Grasshopper. Now send your people back, give over the comms and let's try and play nice like our mommas taught us."  
  
Jool's face worked as she listened, trying to suppress one thought, one feeling after another. "There's nothing there, not really." She sounded so desperate for it to be true, I couldn't tell her the rest.  
  
"No, there was nothing. We talked, were held ransom by the most incompetent robbers in the entire Territories, and then we left."  
  
"That was all."  
  
"That was all." Repeating her words nearly makes them true, and I wonder for whose sake I'm lying.  
  
I should have raised more of an objection when Crichton told me to return to the transport with Rygel while he finalised arrangements, rather than following the plan to accompany Scorpius to the Command Carrier. I thought he was trying to ensure our safety. I want to believe that, not that he had given alternate surety of our intentions. But if I did I would have to ask questions of the Crichton remaining that I cannot. Distance lies in the way, as does fear. A hard thing for a warrior to admit, but I was reminded a warrior does not lie to themselves.  
  
So it wasn't all. But how can you tell people about the suspicions you've gained from a man's smile and empty eyes? Maybe I should have risked their laughter. Maybe it wouldn't have mattered.  
  
Some archaeology is best left in its dirt. 


	6. As these that twice befell

I have never succumbed to pride to the extent of failing to acknowledge mistakes. That is a flaw that has seen an end to great men and, whatever my end may be, it will not be caused by subjective self-assessment. Having little better to do as I await or endure Commandant Grayza's attentions, I think of where I failed when I might have succeeded to ensure I will not make the same errors again.  
  
So I must confess that, when he spoke of his intentions, I did not believe him. Neither that he intended to give the technology to me as the lesser of his evils, nor that he would remain aboard the Carrier once the others had left. Yet he told something of the absolute truth in both, the mistake was in failing to examine the possibilities for treachery in his promises.  
  
Of course, at the time, I wasn't aware of the unique situation he had found himself in. Or, perhaps, it would be better to say the unique situation he and himself had found themselves in. It was my failure alone to recognise how far either of his incarnations would be willing to go to get what they wanted. A quality I am forced to admire even as I consider the actions I must make in the event of the destruction they left in their wake.  
  
As expected, they upheld their agreement that Crichton would wear one I-Yensch bracelet as I upheld that I, rather than Braca, would wear the other. It wasn't until they walked the honour line to me that I realised there were two of John Crichton.  
  
I smiled. How could I not?   
  
It was the one who, it transpired, had not joined the Luxan and the Hynerian on the planet who wore the bracelet. A fascinating development, I wondered how hard the other had to work to let him convince himself to wear it. Not very, I suspect. This Crichton that accompanied me had a cold determination in place of the other's unpredictability, he would have considered himself the only one important enough to risk.  
  
There was never any doubt in my mind over this single thing. They were not united. Two Crichtons working together would be a formidable force and one I believe I would have opened fire on immediately should I have had the sense their plans were in accord. So clearly were they not it was a marvel to me that those who knew them could not see it.  
  
Perhaps they were unwilling to, a weakness I should have taken more time to exploit. I believe, with time, I could have convinced the man who wore no bracelet to remain with me as he had promised. He would have been a dangerous asset but one that could have been controlled with care, with the assurances he craved.  
  
But there was no time.  
  
Naturally I had them all monitored, for their health as much as for my peace of mind. Reports on activity and attacks were varying for most but, of the Crichton who had no bracelet, very little was said. Only that he spent his time watching his brother. Guarding his back was the general assessment. Never offering to aid in the development, however. Though it was of interest to me that, on the few occasions he was not watching the wormhole work progress, he was in the mess talking with those Peacekeepers who hated them most.  
  
Notably the unfortunate individual who attacked Officer Sun and Crichton.  
  
When I confronted him over the coincidence, he smiled. There was no denial in him at all and, at once, I realised the danger he posed. Had the ambush succeeded I, too, would be dead. He would be in sole possession of the data and the strength of a Carrier he would have little trouble in coercing to aid him, not with the threat of a wormhole he controlled viewable from the ports.  
  
"You mean to destroy us both? An ambitious if flawed effort."  
  
"I mean to have what's mine, Scorp'. My woman, my worm holes, my earth, my mind, my life."  
  
"And what is to stop me killing you now, or informing your erstwhile crewmates of your plans?"  
  
"Not a thing. But you're not going to. You need me. You never know when your golden boy working on the equations might suddenly turn around and try to blow up your boat. Who's going to give you your answers then?" His mouth took on a vicious cast that I had yet to see on the man. It was intriguing. "As for my 'erstwhile crewmates', tell them what you want. If they believe you, maybe I'll even thank you."  
  
Yes, I could have made him mine. He was like a child craving attention, in his brother's clothes and longing for just one possession to call his own. In his mind they had forsaken him and even I had preferred the other Crichton to work for me. He had fooled them and, in fooling them, only started to hate them more for not looking deeper. I wonder what else he had done. There was no way to be certain, but I did not believe he could have restrained such malevolence until this moment. It was something of a surprise, in the light of this new revelation, that their Leviathan still had its full crew.  
  
A pity I didn't realise it then, I would have enjoyed his despair, his desperation to fill the hole inside, even with the soul of his enemy. But, had I taken him in, it wouldn't have been enough. Just as the overtures his friends must have made had obviously not been. Some wells inside will never be sated; some broken places will never be fixed. But they will consume all around them in the effort to be whole until, finally … it must end.  
  
It ended, then, when I shook my head and moved on. I took no special delight in his anger that I, too, apparently failed to care. It was necessary to ensure that the efforts of the two Crichtons neutralised each other, my only concern to be the victor when the inevitable confrontation occurred.  
  
And, again, I am forced to admit that I should have given more thought to what they were capable of and less to overwhelming success.   
  
Having threatened the Crichton working on the equations with the extinction of his race, I knew he would either acquiesce or at last reveal his true reasons for being aboard. I welcomed either. Grayza's interference had put substantial strains on my schedule and the duplicity of my guests was becoming an annoyance rather than the subject of amused study it had been.  
  
We knew they were using the restorative chamber to meet but it was, as they knew, impossible to monitor. Still, I was unsurprised by Crais' infantile attempt at deception when he came to bargain for his commission with the supposed plans of the others. Although the information he gave matched the freely moving Crichton's earlier comment that they intended the destruction of the Carrier, I failed to be fooled by the second deliverer.  
  
I decided to let them perform their plan, nonetheless, until they had shown enough of their intentions that I could affect a counter to render them harmless without fearing they had exigency manoeuvres. It did give me, at least, the opportunity to have the lesser players placed in holding. Still, I feel I should have spent more time considering the unrestricted Crichton's phraseology when he came to me in my command chambers.  
  
"Why don't you just kill them?"  
  
"You want them dead?"  
  
"I'm just curious, Grasshopper. You're like a bad Bond villain, leaving everyone alive just to threaten the guy you know is going to climb over everyone in here to make sure you have nothing when he's done. You're so screwed." His grin was delighted, so sure of his own schemes he seemed to give no thought that I might as easily have him executed here and now.  
  
"I leave them alive because I see no purpose yet in killing them. As to my destiny, I believe this is a conversation we've already had." A pause until I saw his expression darken and the surety dissolve. "Ah, of course. My apologies, it was with the version of yourself that I have a use for. But I duly note the incarceration of your friends is of no concern to you, I'm sure I can find other methods to ensure cooperation in the unlikely event I require something of you."  
  
With his step toward me, the guards at the door in turn moved to him but I waved them away. A calculated insult, that I considered him neither important, nor dangerous. But I had underestimated that same intelligence, cunning, I witnessed in his counterpart still existed within the broken one before me. A third mistake, as I think back, and the most damaging.  
  
I had hoped he would be forced to tell me his proposed endgame if only as a matter of pride and worth, but of course he did not.  
  
"Nice try, Scorp'. It's going to be a day of them. Enjoy your ride."  
  
Behind him, Co-Kura burst through the door wheezing from the exertions of what had to be a run from the laboratories. "C... Crichton believes he has it! Permission to fetch his craft from the Leviathan for further verification."  
  
For the sheer sake of ignoring the other, I studied the trembling scientist for longer than his position or request warranted. When he had sunk in on himself to such a degree he was clearly expecting a blow, I spoke. "Granted, but you will be on Moya no longer than absolutely necessary. You may go." A glance up from the tablets before me showed only Co-Kura leaving. "Both of you."  
  
He shrugged with a flicker of the faintest surprise before he gave a smile of such amusement as he turned to walk away that I had a momentary urge to call him back. To do so would have altered the power balance too greatly in his favour but, I think, the fact I did not was what sealed my loss and his victory.   
  
What I assumed to be arrogance in surprise at being told to leave I realise now was far more. He had thought I would realise what he had told me and I did not. Only when I was in the module, Crichton fighting an increasingly unresponsive machine through an already unstable wormhole, did I remember the last three words he spoke.  
  
He knew Crichton would take me with him and, in my absence, he, Crais and Sun were still aboard and free. This glorious journey was no more than a diversion and, sickeningly, he had told me as much, if I had thought to listen. Rather than my plans to neutralise Crichton against Crichton, he instead was using me against his other self.   
  
I looked to the pilot, did he know it? We'd barely exchanged words that were unrelated to wormholes, did he know he was being plotted against even as he was plotting.  
  
"Crichton. John? Are you able to take us back to the Command Carrier?"  
  
"We're not even half way around, you getting bored back there? No in-flight movie, just watch the scenery and enjoy the ride."  
  
"As I have already been advised by to do. However, I think that may be impossible. If you wish to find your friends in the state in which you left them when you return, I suggest you make the greatest haste back to them."  
  
"Enough with the threats, I'm doing what you…"  
  
"This isn't a threat, it isn't of my making." I broke across, allowing a note of urgency into my tone.  
  
"You think Grayza will try something?"  
  
  
  
"No, but I believe your counterpart has every intention of using your attempt at a distraction to his own ends. I know of your plans, John, please don't insult either of us by denying them. My question is whether you know of his."  
  
Another shudder ripped through the small craft as he pulled a sharp turn into the next corridor of the wormhole. We stabilised instantly and, in a moment, we were within normal space and sight of the Carrier.  
  
I suppose it could be a consolation that we both made mistakes. 


	7. Parting is all we know of heaven

There are so many frelling ways it could have been different and I will no longer mourn what was never there. I am a soldier. I bring death and order and my decisions must be made quickly and the best for the many. I cannot afford to dwell on what could or should have been for one, or two, or three.  
  
But I can retreat, and I did. I have.  
  
I stopped sleeping in Crichton's bed a few nights after we returned to Moya and he never said a word. The casual touches between us became fewer and fewer, and that was my choice. He understood, he was willing to give me time and, given time, perhaps I could have learned to love only one of them.   
  
We weren't given time, we never are. It's a bitter nostalgia to know that time has, from the moment we met, never been on our side. But I am a soldier and I do not have time for sentimental memories.  
  
The plan had been for one Crichton to take Scorpius off the Carrier while the other and I cleared a path to Talyn for Crais. The Crichton aboard with us changed the plan and so eager was I to give him my support after he'd been refusing to even look at me for so long, I didn't even question him. It was still sound, I would make my way to the cells to free the others; he would ensure Crais' safety. We would have, he insisted, a greater chance of success that way.  
  
If Crais had any misgivings, he didn't voice them for once. He just came to stand before me in the restorative chamber. It was just the two of us and more of the memories that might have been.  
  
"You have to do this."  
  
"For myself. For Talyn."  
  
"Not for us?"  
  
"Perhaps, in a moment of weakness."  
  
"I have been honoured to fly with you, Captain Crais."  
  
"The honour has been mine, Officer Sun."  
  
He smiled and lowered his head with a wryness that made me touch a hand to his cheek. "Now, you go."  
  
He left and when I followed a moment later, he was gone from the corridor. I should have had time to make my way to the cells in peace. Crichton had promised he would have Scorpius occupied for an arn at least, but instead we had less than half that time before the half-breed's return. He spoke on carrier-wide Comms, I could hear the harshness in his tone as Scarran heritage took the fore.  
  
"Aeryn Sun, Bialar Crais and John Crichton are to be taken into custody immediately. Lethal force is permitted in the capture of John Crichton only. I repeat, John Crichton only."  
  
There was no time to fear for their safety, I would fulfil my function and free the others. Crichton, both Crichtons, would take care of themselves. I had no idea how they would now get Crais to Talyn, but he would make it somehow.  
  
I armed myself from the first man unfortunate enough to place himself in my path. The heaviness of the weapon was as reassuring as it had been from the first moment I handled one in pre-training. A soldier is still a soldier, even without a firearm, but they are infinitely more effective with one. As the squad guarding the cells discovered.  
  
Their screams barely registered over the sudden lurch of the Carrier and the thunderous booming that followed it. It sounded as if there would be microts before it would be torn apart by what I presumed was Talyn's starburst, not the half arn we had counted on for evacuation of personnel.  
  
In the chaos it was easy to break away without being noticed but harder to run against the stream of the crowd towards command, rather than away. I couldn't have known how badly wrong it had gone but, even if I had, I would have done what I did. It would have been born of the same foolish sentimentality; to be sure the men I loved were safe no matter what they had done.  
  
Now I run for no one but myself, and will not until the child within me is born. Then I will run for both of us and be the soldier for both of us, until it is old enough to learn not to love what can kill it.  
  
Water from the recreation areas spilled down the tiers, sparking when it met power lines and fire. How many died before they reached the transports I don't know, but I climbed over the dead and injured where I had to. Maybe it was kinder for them than the ones who discovered their transport had provided most of the damage in the first place. He had detonated every transport, removed the chance for escape from the Carrier for all those aboard.   
  
There was no one in command, not even the Captain. My disgust died as I found monitors to show me where the Crichtons and Crais were.  
  
One showed Talyn's bay, there had been no starburst. There had been an explosion, through. Something had to have made the gaping hole in Talyn's hull that left a full quarter of him open. Smoke and fire surrounded him; there was no sign of Crais. I will not allow myself to create a fictional warrior's end for either of them.   
  
The other screen monitored the hangar that held Crichton's module. The floor had been split; a seam of fire guttering with black smoke and orange sparks. Two men stood beside the craft and both were Crichton. They were dressed the same, now, and neither wore the I-Yensch bracelet. No one could have told which was which. No one.  
  
I wanted to believe my eyes lied. They weren't arguing; they were only angry at the plan gone wrong. The pushes they gave each other were frustration, not intended to harm. The desperation of my fingers scrabbling over the buttons while I prayed to a god that killed her race was pathetic. Weak and stupid and I will never be weak and stupid again.  
  
Something I pressed must have worked, or a cruel god answered after all. The sound crackled too loudly, filling the corridor outside as well.  
  
"… my plan, brother? You gotta admit it worked. First time for everything, momma used to say. Wormhole data gone, no one getting out that's been a naughty half-breed, and now we get some quiet time to see who gets to borrow the car for the weekend."  
  
"You can speak about mom and still … how the fuck could you do this?"  
  
"Morally or practically? One was a little easier than the other, but it's not like you can say we're not all about resourceful. They were all watching you. You, the one without the devil on his shoulder."  
  
"You are not blaming this on Harvey, Harvey couldn't make me do this, he couldn't make you do it."  
  
"Who said I meant Harvey?"  
  
"Are you saying this is about me?" His incredulity burned my heart. The other's face twisted from wild to beyond anguish and then into nothing I could recognise. There were no more words spoken between them again.  
  
They fought well. They should have, I taught them. I gave them those basic tools to kill each other with. And I stopped being able to tell which was which after thirty microts. No one could have told which was which. No one. I should have been looking for D'Argo and the others, but I couldn't move. All I could do was watch. More stupidity. More weakness.  
  
The floor rippled under them as they traded punches and kicks, trying to force each other into the fire. There was meant to be one John Crichton, only one, and they were both in their ways finishing what had been started monens ago.  
  
I remember a dullness in my mind, numbing my world to that one monitor. D'Argo's hand on my shoulder, I never felt until he squeezed.  
  
"What the frell are they doing, there's room in the module for both of them."  
  
"No, there isn't."  
  
"Then there's room on Lo'laa. Where's that hangar? I'll tell them myself. We have to go, Aeryn."  
  
"There's no room on Lo'laa, D'Argo."  
  
He turned me to him and I didn't fight him. Met his gaze steadily because that was what a soldier must do at the end. When they have no more weapons and nowhere else to run, they must not blink.  
  
"Then, Aeryn, there is room for you. Come with me, now. They'll join us, one way or another."  
  
"We are warriors D'Argo. We do not lie to ourselves."  
  
In leaving that room I left them both. I am proud that it only took two steps before I shook D'Argo's hand from my arm. I am prouder that the tears in my eyes never fell and cleared long before anyone could see them.  
  
I barely noticed the presence of a strange woman aboard D'Argo's ship, an unforgivable lapse, but there seem to have been few repercussions from it. We had cleared into space and were in Moya's docking web before Pilot told us that the module had followed, but the Comms in it were damaged. He had no idea who was piloting it.  
  
It occurred to me that it could be John and we would still have no idea who was piloting it. I deemed the amusement, however dark, inappropriate and put it away.   
  
John, it was. He climbed out of the module like an old man. His face was smoke black, smudged red with blood, and his clothes were torn and singed. Blue eyes met mine for an instant in a hope I couldn't respond to and he looked away in defeat to see D'Argo down the length of the Qu'alta blade.  
  
"Which Crichton are you?"  
  
"Where's …?"  
  
"What the frell?"  
  
D'Argo, Chiana, Rygel, speaking at once and he fell back against the dented nose of the craft.  
  
"The other … he didn't make it. I'm sorry."   
  
Chiana's hand gripped around my arm, I prised the fingers off one by one as I waited to see if he would say more, refusing to ask which he was, not quite able to acknowledge that I couldn't tell.  
  
The others asked my questions for me. Chiana demanding and entreating in turns to know if he was sure. She seemed certain the John before her was not her own. He shook his head and tried to reach out to her "I'm sorry, Pip."  
  
"Don't! Don't … don't you call me that. Don't." She moved back out of his range and he could only look to D'Argo, who lowered his blade.  
  
"Aeryn and I. We saw the fight."  
  
His jaw clenched in an expression I knew so well I thought, just for that moment, he had to be mine. The certainty left as he spoke.  
  
"There wasn't a fight. It was just an argument, the plan went south so bad we were blaming each other, running scenarios … the floor went and he ... he was just gone."  
  
One John might say that to save himself. The other to save the reputation of a man they had loved and who had been willing to risk them all to be unique once more. I couldn't know. We couldn't know. No one could know. Questions that might have been asked on events that only one of them would have witnessed had already been answered in a hundred recountings over the evening meal. More private things … I couldn't speak on. I didn't want to know the father of my child was dead, or a traitor.  
  
And that was when I knew I had to leave. 


	8. And all we need of hell

"Hi, dad. How's it going? I killed your son." He clicks off the recorder and listens to the whirring erase, exhaling roughly with two parts frustration and one part gallows humour. No, he won't put this on the tape. One day, when he makes it home, he'll tell his father face to face. He can't do any less. He can't do any more.  
  
"John?"   
  
"Aeryn."  
  
He turns his head to look at her. Even standing in the shadows of the doorway, the thin light of his cell catching her form but none of her features, she's painful to see. Everything locked tightly within her, back under the perfect control of the perfect Peacekeeper, everything that had been gained lost again.  
  
"It's time. Moya is ready to put Talyn to rest."  
  
"And after that?"  
  
"You know what's after that."  
  
"You leave. D'Argo leaves. Chiana leaves. Rygel leaves. Was it something I said?" There's a bite to his tone, despite his attempt at humour, and he doesn't try to stop it.   
  
"It's not about you, John." She sounds so calm, pacifying the child. He wants to break the wall she's made, but can't find the cruelty inside needed to do it.  
  
"Oh, well that makes all the difference. Let's go smack a Leviathan on the nose."  
  
He stands and tries to stop the images of everything that could have been if they'd made it home from hazing his mind. It's a flood of surrealism, rushing in to distract from the emptiness in places he doesn't want to look.   
  
When they return from Talyn's last resting place he takes refuge in the centre chamber, to find the old woman has claimed it first. Anger at the invasion makes him startle her, a petty cruelty he can only find the energy to mildly rebuke himself for.   
  
They talk, but his voice sounds even further away than hers. She thanks him and it sounds wrong, but he can't remember why. He's done nothing to be thanked for, he's sure.  
  
Fire and smoke and a long scream that never quite dies away in his mind remind him of that.  
  
He's not too proud to ask for her for more of the herbs that blunt the truth even as they give it edges that make his mind bleed. Bleeding is what it is, one soul into another. One memory into another. One truth into another.  
  
And, maybe, they'll give him a truth he can live with.  
  
In the midst of a blood washed wedding something is sealed with tears he can't feel himself shedding. Mending the broken places and replacing something never meant to have been lost with a connection he hadn't realised was missing.   
  
The scream in his mind becomes his own; endlessly mourning the death of a bride he'll never have. Guilt is placed in fantasy and forgiven in reality. It had been an accident. There was no way he could ever do such a thing, it must have been an accident.  
  
  
  
When he stands it's with determination. The tape recorder drops from his hands, forgotten. He will convince her not to go. And if he can't convince her not to go, he will go with her. And if he cannot go with her, he will travel just behind. Because he is John Crichton and John Crichton cannot let anything get between himself and what he loves. Not even John Crichton.  
  
Harvey wisely keeps silent on the walk to the hangar.  
  
In the desert   
  
I saw a creature, naked, bestial,   
  
Who, squatting upon the ground,   
  
Held his heart in his hand   
  
And ate of it.   
  
I said, "Is it good, friend?"   
  
"It is bitter -- bitter," he answered;   
  
"But I like it   
  
Because it is bitter,   
  
And because it is my heart."   
  
Stephen Crane (1871 - 1900) 


End file.
